Echoes of Darkness: The Deserved Backstories
by MrSunbro
Summary: The original killers in this game suffer an injustice: terrible backstories. The oldest killers get a few paragraphs at best which does them dirty. This collection of short stories aims to fix that. Will update with each killer per chapter so they get the backstory they are currently robbed of.
1. The Wraith

Author;s Note: This story is a slight adaptation to the full story, the ending being changed slightly. separations are changes in perspective between Philip and his boss to make it easier to read

Yet another sunny day for Philip Ojomo, the most simple man with the most simple life. He came to America with a dream, a dream that involves a family, a modest job, and a slow life. His dream was nearing completion when he got offered his job at Autohaven Wreckers as a person to compact cars. It was his first offer and he would be crazy not to take such a simple, mellow job. It might just be labor for the poor man, something anyone can do, but it has never bothered him.

Before he departs he consults his runes as a prediction for today. He has always been fascinated by spirits and how you cannot see them. But they can see you. To him they are ethereal guides that help guide and shape life. The markings are simple, whether they be made from soot or mud, they all have meaning to him. Today from what he can feel is going to be strange, the wind is picking up outside, something life changing will happen. Excited, he rushes to the bus station, eager to go to work.

Once he gets off he heads straight through the old gateway and past the gas station that still has his truck under repair. He heads to the wooden lodge in the far back of the yard and greets his boss who returns it with a silent nod. Azarov was always a strange man to Philip. He looked like any other man in the world, a face that would stick out in the crowd. He was built like a bull, customers who tried and argue with him normally get torn to shreds by glare alone. He was a man you could sense to not mess with, he always had this vibe of power around him. This meant Phillip kept his head low, preferring to do his job a great distance from that man. No matter how he feels about Azarov, he does his job and he does it well.

Lately however, the junkyard has been visited by men in strange suits, going to the back of the store with his boss in quiet negotiation. Phillip never tried to eavesdrop, he would rather focus on his job than get fired over nonsense, As time went on these men came more and more frequently, some of them even waving to Phillip as they walked by. As they came more often new cars came with them, booming business and earning Phillip a raise.

As normal at exactly 11:00 am the men came in, driving yet another car that would share the same fate as the rest. Phillip remained quiet, almost invisible as to not interfere with the influx of new business coming to his boss and his job. No matter what he has felt he had a job to do, and he would do it the same. It is a simple process, but a sight he always loves to see: The car is picked up gingerly like a child, put inside the compactor and comes out a very orderly cube. This time however, the machine jammed for some reason.

He hops down to the machine to investigate and notices red from inside the car. He about to go ask when he turns around and sees one of the suited men, face hidden by a large hat. He says that he is terribly sorry, and that he had left fresh meat from the deli in his car, causing all the blood and meat to leak from the vehicle. There is nothing to worry about, no one had gotten hurt and Phillip agreed to not worry about it.

Later that evening, minutes before closing time he saw one last car come through the gate, a very expensive looking sports car. He was shocked to see such an expensive car about to be sandwiched into scrap metal. It pulled right up to his crane and parked, the same man from earlier coming out. He greeted Phillip, saying that if the machine jams one more time from something he may have forgot he would help pay for damages. Before Ojomo could ask the man he was off the see Azarov. Something about that car felt ominous, it did not feel right. Regardless, he had to do his job for the junkyard's best clients or he would be fired. He moved the controls over the car and went to pick it up, the arms of the crane touching it, but the one by the trunk struggled. He shrugged and put it in the compactor, another metallic victim of the machine; except it wasn't. Once again the trunk would not compact, so left his workplace and went over to see the issue was, He jogged over to the car and tried to open the trunk, but to no avail. It was bolted shut, clearly someone wanted it to stay closed. Phillip swore he hear something from inside of it, so against all his instincts he went to fetch a crowbar.

He pried open the trunk and gasped at what he saw. There was a young man in there, barley past his twenties tied up with a gag in his mouth, his eyes pleading for help. He went to turn around and call the authorities when he bumped right into his boss, staring right into his soul. He wanted to hide, to turn invisible, but not this time. He pulled out a gun and before Philip could say anything he fired… at the boy and not him. Azarov said Phillip was too good of a worker to lose, one small mishap like this shouldn't ruin his career, should it? He spoke about how the men in suits were not businessmen, but the Mafia providing him good business in exchange for "services". It was so convenient that he had such an amazing way of dealing with problems, almost like he could squeeze them out of existence.

The world stopped for Phillip, he had realized what he had done. He had just murdered a man earlier, he was a monster. His life was ruined, there was blood on his hands, this is what the runes told him of a "life changing moment". His thought was broken when he heard Azarov directly said his name, something that never happened. He finished his speech with an offer for Phillip: he could keep quiet about all of this and earn a little bit of side money to "speed things up" or he could have a bullet between his eyes. He stopped to consider this when he heard the whispers.

He thought he was going insane with grief, but there was definitely something in his mind, invading every corner of it. It was saying that he should not have to suffer this grief, that Azarov was the one responsible for this. He was the target now, if he died Philip could hide, follow the spirits to safety. He felt almost compelled to agree, like his subconscious was taken over. His boss then yelled at him to make his choice or he would make it for him. Once his eyes fluttered open he looked right at Azarov with hatred in his eyes.

His boss suddenly went agape in surprise, his quiet, obedient worker suddenly walked towards him with a glare that said nothing but hate. He had seen this too many times, he quickly cocked his gun and fired through his eye, sad he had to put such a loyal worker down. He did not hear the normal sound of a bullet through flesh, rather he heard a ping. When he looked up Phillip's eye was just a white dot, no pupil and no damage. He panicked again and fired at the other and fired again, the bullet going off whatever force was protecting him. For once in his life he was terrified, he had just made a grave mistake.

Philip saw Azarov yell like a child and run to his store, slamming the door shut. His mind was still fueled with rage. He had seen that door be attacked before; however, it could not be broken by human hands. He roared, almost like an animal in frustration at the thought of losing his prey, his now former boss. Once again however, the fog encircled him, his ever so loving runes appearing on the ground around him. They all suddenly shot out a torrent of mist around him, making him cough and choke. When they ceased he realized two things.

For one he could not speak, the best he could do was snarl, an inhuman sound. Two, he was invisible like he had always dreamed. He could feel the power of the spirits with him, urging him to go forward. With renewed vigor he silently went towards the shop, his boss unaware of what was coming. He did not know if he was stuck like this forever, but he did not care. As he got closer he could feel a bloodlust build inside of him, so hard that in two kicks the door splintered, wood raining everywhere. He saw his boss behind the counter, cowering like a child. For such a large man he did not seem to be very brave.

Azarov leaped up from his position moments after the door exploded, straight into the garage where Philip's truck was. He had no idea what just happened, but he did not care. There was only one way in… and out. He tried to start the truck, but realized he forget the keys on the counter. He tried to run back, only to be blocked by the air itself. He flew back into the truck, losing consciousness on impact.

When he came to he found himself being dragged back towards the compactor by some unseen force. He tried to kick at what was holding him to no avail. His captor let go, as if satisfied where he was. The air around him swirled, and out of the mist came Phillip holding a crowbar in his hands. Before he could ask anything he felt it dig into his flesh and he screamed.

Azarov just dashed into the one door garage like a fool, he had left the keys behind. He tried to start the truck in vain before getting up and trying to exit. Phillip promptly stepped in his way, blocking his escape. He could feel the power coursing through him, so with it he kicked Azarov straight into the truck, knocking him out. An idea that was not his own formed in his mind, a way of purifying himself in the eyes of the spirits. He picked up the leg of the big man and dragged him, towards where this started and where it would end.

As he dragged his boss he looked around at once was his second home, now it would be the start of a second life.

Once he got back to the compactor he tossed Azarov on the ground like a doll. He stood in the runic circle that encompased him and appeared in front of his boss. He looked quietly at the man who had been in control of his life for so long. He touched the crowbar lying on the ground and knew exactly what to do. He picked it up and slowly walked over, every step fueling him with rage and grief at what his boss made him do, he had killed a man. He had forced a simple man to become a murderer. This was not a kill however, this was repentance for what he had done. With unnatural force he dug it into his boss's back, forcing his way into his bone.

With might he tugged it, the groaning of bone resisting the tugging becoming louder and louder. He tugged back and forth, the slow crumbling of bones being heard. Azarov was screaming like a child, no words could be formed. The pain could felt, the flesh slowly rending from bone, blood vessels erupting, nerves fraying… all in the name of vengeance. Ater minutes of prying open this man's spine Phillip reached down and tore it out, blood and viscera going everywhere. After this frenzy he stopped to inspect what he was holding. It was the perfect spine and skull of the man he just butchered. The spirits were whispering in his mind again, telling him exactly what to do. He went over to the trunk, ripped the bolts out of it and walked over to the worksop with spine in hand.

It was done, a cast iron bell bolted together and infused with the skull of that man. Instead of walking back to the runic circle on the ground, he could ring this bell, marked with runes and becomes ethereal at ease. He had finally done it: he had truly become invisible from the world as he wanted. His life as he knew it was over, there was no going back. As he thought this the very same mist that helped him through all of this started surrounding him, enveloping him in darkness. He could feel himself mutate, body parts extending, his clothing being torn off for rags and his skin becoming charred and ashen.

After the mist dissipated he looked around him at the workshop and scenery, he was not there anymore. He stepped outside in this strange form and looked around, amazed at what he saw. Barrels, wooden pallets and red generators all over the place. Brick walls surrounding him, keeping him in, trapping him for whatever reason. He looked up at the moon and saw his life flash before his eyes, his memories dissolving, losing his humanity. He would cry out for it to stop, but he did not care. All his life he just wanted to stay low, not be noticed and just be himself. He has finally been given that chance, and repay his debt to the spirits that did this. His dream had come true, he had become a Wraith.


	2. The Hag

Author's Note: See if you can spot the addon Easter eggs,enjoy!

In the deep forest, there was a village with no name, the people had no names for themselves. The villagers were not in contact with the modern world, leaving them to their own lives in peace, and that's exactly what it was. The villagers very rarely had dispute between them and the few times they did the chiefs would settle it out with no violence. Why is it so peaceful? They have an obsession with charms and the runes ranging from hope, happiness to protection. A small girl named Lisa Sherwood loved the idea of protection.

Lisa grew up differently from most children, instead of learning her alphabet and basic math she learned to survive and protect herself. She was by no means an unintelligent person, it was just that she had other interests, namely charms. She was not part of any of the shamanistic families, but her fascination with them was always there. Day and night from when she was little girl she would be in the shaman's hut, asking him a billion questions. Eventually he made her an apprentice, learning all about them and why each has meaning. To the casual observer they look like sloppy marks on the walls like triangles, but to Lisa they meant everything.

She spent so much time with the shaman that she forgot her duty: to be a mother and continue the lineage of the village, to keep it happy and quiet. She was a rebellious child, never listening and always going to visit the shaman instead of learning to cook, clean or sew like all the other girls. Once she was old enough to marry she refused all possible courtships, focusing an obsession on the charms and how they could make life better for everyone. She spent day and night slaving particularly over the protection rune, learning everything there was to know about the simple triangle, for the most simple things can carry great power. It is said that the rune carries strength with it, a master of it can feel connected to every rune they create, allowing runic users to safely return to the village, this was all a myth of course, but she believed otherwise.

Things took a turn for the worse when people started seeing her runes become drawn in ash, soot and blood. She claimed that it was more powerful, that is you put life into it that it will work, they could all be saved. They labeled her a heretic and she was forced to stop, any materials she had taken away and her rituals destroyed. In a fit of rage she attacked the elder, shredding his skin with nails she had long since not trimmed, leaving a terrible gash on him. The others heard the scream, she had to run. She was only twenty, but she would have to make do in the world now.

Hours later she was in a terribly wet and soggy swamp still running for her life. She wasn't sure if they were still following her or if she escaped. Too caught up in her thoughts she failed to notice her poor footing and slipped, falling on a rock and losing conscious. She drifted in and out for an unknown amount of time, the only thing she knew was that she was being carried by people. They were probably carrying her back to the village to repent her crimes… or so she though.

When she awoke she was chained to a wall in a musty, muddy cellar. She struggled all she could, but the bonds did not budge. She looked around and saw at least 3 other in the same predicament as her and tried to ask for help, only to find her mouth gagged. Suddenly the storm door above her opened and a heavyset man in a dark apron came down eyeing her as if she were fresh meat. He undid her cuffs and dragged her outside and into a house straight to a kitchen.

She thought she was safe if even only a second before she was hurled onto a counter top and clamped down. He pulled out from a draw the sharpest knife she had ever seen and walked towards her. There are no words to describe how much pain she felt, how loud her screams were through her rag. The man, she knew now as the Butcher would soon be a common visitor. After he was done he dragged back to the cellar and restrained her, only this time with her ear gone.

This went on for weeks, Lisa or another would be taken upstairs and mutilated then cast back down there to die. Lisa struggled in her bonds everyday, her arms growing long and her hand becoming warped and misshapen. Being too long in the dark didn't help either, her skin went pale and her once beautiful face was reduced to that of what you could call a monster. She was always so hungry, getting barely any scraps, just enough to survive. One day instead of the just the Butcher visiting her it was an old woman and him. She was hunchbacked with the most crooked nose, a dirty rag for clothing. She looked around the dark room then slowly focused on Lisa. She looked at the Butcher and said, "Bring me another piece of the girl." In usual fashion he undid her rusty shackles and opened the door to drag her out.

Little did he know Lisa had been drawing the runes in the mud all around him with her feet, her blood being mixed in. For once she was not afraid, she would be free of this place, the whispers she been hearing told her as much. Her body was already mutilated, barely being able to stand properly and not being able to speak. Her hand was now scarred, she did not feel any sensation from it. She could not speak either, her mouth gone so dry all she could do was growl with a deep, guttural sound like a creature from hell itself was on Earth. When she would escape these people would pay dearly with their lives.

As she was laid down on the all too familiar counter she had a terrible, terrible idea. All morning in the dark before she had been whispering to herself incantations she did not even existed. Her thoughts sounded alien, even to her warped mind. It felt like help had come, but not directly. It said how to use her rune, that she was right about blood all along. She needed the most pure kind to perfect her rune however: human blood. She did not argue with these thoughts and whispers, she would have her revenge. As the Butcher prepared his weapon with his back turned she used her now scarred hand to create an exact visage of her charm in the wood, going unseen by the Butcher. After yet another mutilation she was tossed back into the cellar.

Her thoughts were of blood, human blood was all she needed... just humans. She looked at another captive next to her who had never spoken with hungry eyes. It felt as if the whispers gave her strength as she tore free her rusty shackles and dove right at him. She was consumed by anger, she needed to eat and she needed blood, anything to keep herself going. She tore open his throat then ripped out some organ then quickly gobbled it up, leaving the remaining pieces on the floor. She felt renewed vigor in her as she went to slaughter the other captives, their screams meaning little to her. Dark power surged through her and she concentrated hard on that countertop, she could feel her life force moving towards it, knowing that there was more blood there. With that temptation she left her mind for a brief second and appeared on the counter in the middle of a family meal screaming at the top of her lungs.

Granma fell out of her chair, hitting her head and blacking out on the cold, hardwood while the Butcher unphased ran to the kitchen to get his knife. Lisa turned her inhuman eyes at the kitchen and ran after him. He picked up the knife and threw it at whatever monster had just appeared in his house, but to no avail. Her flesh seemed to be mud, powered and covered by something unnatural. He tried to flee but he slipped on the unclean blood, eye to eye with this creature.

Lisa looked at the Butcher in the eye and dove at him, her previously sharp hands now warped into a deadly weapon. She slashed at him and drank his blood, feeling like sweet nectar down her dry throat. She heard the whispers, saying she needed more if she wants her charms to work and to cure her hunger. She did not rip open the Butcher like the last man, she picked him up and strapped him to the countertop, no resistance given. She swiped and slashed at him, the term death by a thousand lashes being a generous estimate. When she was done she was coated in blood, all that remained of him was shredded flesh and a skull disjointed from the body.

She heard whimpers from the other roomed and straddled her way in, seeing the old woman on the floor, hugging her cookbook. It looked thick enough to stop a bullet, like a makeshift shield. It however, was not strong enough to stop Lisa's hand breaking through it and grabbing her heart. With minimal effort she ripped it from the shrieking woman and ate it in front of her.

Whatever was left of Lisa was gone, all she cared about was getting more blood and flesh to consume, she was always so hungry. After she disappeared into the swamp she felt a cold mist over her, losing her vision. When she came to she was in the same swamp, but in front of her was a beached boat, lost to time and ruined. She did not know why she was here or where she was, but one thing was known: there was no time to think. All that matters is her hunger. It must eat, it must gnaw and chew.

Lisa Sherwood is dead her place is a creature of pure hunger.


End file.
